Quiet Letter
by Lone.L
Summary: Oneshot. The candle wavers as he whispers to himself that he has to finish it, even if it's only to appease his own heart.


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**Quiet Letter  
**

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Snow…and fire. Eternal opposites, in a way. He, at least, thinks as much. 

The flakes fall outside without end; the flames lick the air in the fireplace aggressively. Biting, chilling frigidity collides with warming, thawing heat at the door. Neither wins—those forced to stand out in the cold are resigned to the freezing wind while he, who remains inside, basks in the glow and warmth of the flames.

In the fireplace, a decent-sized blaze is alight, casting a sublime glow over the otherwise somber and dim room; the tongues of fire jump, bite, and lick away at the brick walls around them, tossing flickering shadows over the wall. The lights are left off. The only remaining source of illumination in the room is a small candle, resting on the desk beside a single piece of paper. The desk is a work of art—perfectly carved, stained a dark mahogany, and polished. On its smooth surface, several materials are laid out: the candle, whose tiny flame is dancing in conjunction with the larger ones, a loose sheet of paper, already written on, a black fountain pen, and a glass vase full of beautiful flowers.

He sits in quiet meditation, eyes closed, head bent and arms folded over his chest. Even the fire isn't large enough to drown out its rival, the cold, completely, so he is garbed in his flowing brown cloak. The tips hang over the chair's edge and dangle inches from the floor. His vest is drawn tight over his blank white shirt, holding in every bit of heat it can. For a few moments, he quietly ponders.

With a smile that would be infectious were he not alone, his blazing golden eyes slowly open, and he reaches for the pen. His blonde hair swings deftly in its ponytail as he leans forward, drawing out words, suddenly absorbed in his work.

The snow continues to fall outside.

He smiles once more, this time at himself, at the quickly dawning realization that his work is futile. He can never send this letter.

The candle wavers as he whispers to himself that he has to finish it, even if it's only to appease his own heart.

Each stroke is delicate, laying out a line to be added to with other strokes. One by one, letters form, stringing into sentences, and later into paragraphs. The empty space on the paper is dwindling quickly. His mouth clenches as he nears the end.

As he works, he thinks back on his life, on the people he's met, the friends he had, the ones he loved. In the end, he figures, Equivalency really did balance it out with finality. For his sins, he ended up here, nearly stranded from everything. He had tried to repent, to erase his sins and start anew, and in doing so, he's assumed that he earned himself a little leverage—in the form of life, which he considers miraculous that he still has, and the return of his brother to his side.

With those thoughts occupying his weary mind—for he has been awake all night, and into the morning—he sets the pen down and stops to admire his work.

After a quiet moment, he smiles in satisfaction.

The snowfall increases, building in intensity, threatening to build up thick mountains of white flakes. However, the faintest traces of the sun's rays are slowly becoming visible, bringing light to the world. Suddenly, the room feels much warmer.

There is no need to put a name to the letter's intended recipient. She'll never receive it, anyway.

His eyes flicker before glancing to the side, catching on to the vase. The smile he wears becomes burdened with sadness as he examines the foremost one, a gorgeous flower with a perfect stalk and thick petals.

He slowly stands and gently blows the candle out, and then reaches over to the clear vase. His right hand finds the vibrant red rose, which he deftly lays atop the paper.

A gleaming tear splatters silently against the desk's surface as he heads upstairs, boots knocking soundly against the floor.

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**A/N: **I'm sure I had inspiration for this, but it would be difficult to actually identify where it came from. I know I started this fic with intentions of doing something involving Ed writing a letter to—well...if I told you, that would spoil the mystery, wouldn't it? I did leave a single hint in there, if you can pick up on it. Either way, I accomplished my goal. My original vision wasn't to have him cry, because this wasn't intended to have any angst, but halfway through I realized all it would do is add to the story. My imagery in this one—because all of my _loyal _(cough) readers always tell me about it—is the snow, the flames, and finally, the sun, but I won't specify. All in all, the fic took me only about ten minutes to write, but it was spread over two days. I didn't intend for this to be too long, and, as it seems...I got my wish. Sorry, everyone. I know I usually contribute at least a thousand words. My sincerest apologies, seriously. 

**EDIT: **Well, what can I say. It seems like I make edits to all of my stories. I found something I needed to shape up, and added a small paragraph. It looks better this way.

Make sure you R&R. Even if I say that, there's no way in hell any of you will...you won't bother, but I put it in here for my own enjoyment (/sarcasm).

**LL**


End file.
